196 THE RAISIN INDUSTRY. 



lands half way up on the lower hills. Dotted all over the valley are 

 farmhouses in all styles, elegant and tasty or plain and simple, enough 

 only to keep out the rain and the sun. Around every such cluster of 

 buildings there is a little plantation of eucalyptus and cypress, and a 

 few ornamental plants. Here and there at long intervals is seen a row 

 of gums, black and somber, as if they were on duty as shields from 

 wind and fog. We are soon in the bus on the way to town. The 

 roads are straight and well kept, bordered with young eucalyptus and 

 cypress, and with vineyards on both sides with the rows of vines 

 remarkably distinct; we can follow each one of them distinctly for sev- 

 eral miles over the undulating ground until they end on the steeper 

 slopes of the hills, or run into the little canons bordering the valley. 

 El Cajon has no pretentious to being a town; it is an unassuming and 

 quiet little village, whose inhabitants, when they speak of " town," 

 always mean San Diego, twenty miles away. El Cajon has a dozen 

 houses, all told, one of each kind of the most necessary stores and 

 shops, but Wells, Fargo & Co. have not yet discovered this quiet 

 place. Nevertheless, it has two hotels, one small and unassuming, 

 which runs a bus to the station, and where everybody seems to meet; 

 the other, large and pretentious, both as to bay-windows and name, 

 Corona del Cajon, but apparently void of much internal life. The 

 railroad to El Cajon was finished only some eight months ago. If it 

 had been running three years ago during the Southern boom, the 

 valley would perhaps to-day be rivaling Pasadena and Riverside in 

 thrifty farms and residences. 



El Cajon is the most important raisin-producing district in San Diego 

 county, and so exclusively and to such an extent have the raisin 

 grapes been planted here that we hardly see anything else. Vine- 

 yards as far as we can see in all directions; vineyards in the rolling 

 bottom of the valley; vineyards also on the steeper slopes of the 

 hills; nothing else than Muscats of Alexandria for business, and only 

 a few other vines around the cottages for home use. A drive through 

 the valley brings us in close contact with what we saw from the 

 more elevated station. One vineyard joins the other, with only a 

 road between, and there are no rows of poplars and only very rarely 

 a row of eucalyptus or cypress. The view is open on every side, and 

 from every point we can see over the valley and the low hills surround- 

 ing it. The vines have at this time of the year left off growing and 

 have assumed a dark green color, not relieved by any young and more 

 vividly colored shoots. The grapes hang ripe under the branches, 

 and the trays are in many places distributed in piles over the field. 

 There are two packing-houses in the valley; the one now under way 

 is 40 by 130 feet, being built of redwood, and apparently most care- 

 fully put up. I see no sign of irrigation anywhere, and every one 

 tells me that it is not required. But I cannot help thinking that a 

 little water judiciously used would have kept the vines growing much 

 longer, and would have naturally increased the crop, which now only 

 averages two and one-half tons of green grapes per acre. There are 

 many very beautiful mansions in the valley, surrounded by very 

 praiseworthy attempts at landscape gardening, but the absence of 



